


Batman: League of Darkness

by Kenobi97



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28707393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenobi97/pseuds/Kenobi97
Summary: What if Bruce Wayne had killed the murderer brought before him as his final test to join the League of Shadows?  That is the question this story asks.  To make this more feasible, I have changed the League of Shadow's plan for Gotham to be more surgical with Bruce leading League forces to kill the corrupt and criminal classes.  Not to wipe out the entire city in waves of raving psychedelic insanity, a plan Bruce would never agree too.  I have also introduced Talia al Ghul as a character, and she is the person who recruits him from the Bhutanese Prison.The first Chapter will borrow Dialogue heavily from Batman Begins.  Almost all dialogue within the chapter is from that movie, and all credit goes to the writers of that film.
Relationships: Talia al Ghul/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Batman: League of Darkness

Bruce Wayne sat in his small solitary cell. Covered in mud from his latest brawl in the Bhutanese Prison. In his isolation he thought back to that day in court where Joe Chill was up for parole. A plea bargain for informing on Carmine Falcone. He remembered the feel of the gun in his hands, tucked neatly inside his pocket. Knew that he had every intention of pulling the trigger and ending that son of a bitch who had taken everything from him. He couldn’t do it though. He simply walked out of the Courtroom and into the antechamber. Then any hope of revenge was permanently stolen from him. One of Falcone’s thugs managed to shoot Chill. Bruce was ushered out of the court in a mad crash of bodies. He remembered visiting Falcone’s club later that night. And just sitting in front of the old bastard after the gangster’s bodyguards had dragged him over. Felt them wrench the gun from his pocket in a rough search and hand it to Falcone who held the loaded gun against Bruce’s head. Falcone joked about how Bruce should be thankful not coming to his doorstep with a gun in hand. He continued with a gravelly voice indicating with his eyes around the room to two judges, the police commissioner, and the deputy mayor. And said that in front of all of these people, he still wouldn’t have a second thought about killing Wayne. Bruce almost wanted him to. He realized that was why he had even bothered going to the club. He would not get his wish. Merely beaten black and blue, and thrown outside into the garbage.

As he ran through those memories he heard a throat clear from a corner of the room and visibly jolted in surprise. He thought he had been alone. Had looked around his cell upon his arrival to ensure he was alone. But only now in the Darkness did he see a presence. The voice said calmly, “Are you so desperate to fight criminals that you lock yourself in to take them on one at a time?” Bruce attempted to marshall the emotions on his face and replied sardonically, “Actually, there were seven of them.” The voice stepped closed into the light revealing a beautiful woman in a form fitting black jumpsuit with free flowing brown hair. Her caramel colored skin as well as her accent gave Bruce the impression that this woman was Middle Eastern, in origin. The woman’s piercing emerald eyes were upon him and replied humorlessly, though with a slight twinkle in said eyes, “I counted six, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce could not hide the surprise in his eyes as he asked, “How do you know my name?” The woman answered while looking distastefully at their surroundings, “The world is too small for someone like Bruce Wayne to disappear. No matter how deep he chooses to sink.” Bruce narrowed his eyes and continued questioning the woman, “Who are you?” She replied, “My name is merely Talia, but I speak for Ra’s al Ghul … a man greatly feared by the criminal underworld. A man who can offer you a path.” Bruce busied himself wiping off the muck on his clothing, using the small spigot of trickling water in the corner, and replied with seeming disinterest, “What makes you think I need a path?” The woman merely named Talia, observed, “Someone like you is only here by choice. You have been exploring the criminal fraternity, but whatever your original intentions, you have become truly lost.”

Bruce replied tiredly, “And what path can Ra’s al Ghul offer?” Talia answered immediately, “The path of a man who shares his hatred of evil … and wishes to serve true justice. The path of the League of Shadows.”

Bruce despite his best efforts couldn’t hold back a chuckle as he surmised, “You’re vigilantes.” Talia with an almost patronizing tone countered, “No, no, no. A vigilante is just a man lost in the scramble for his own gratification. He can be destroyed or locked up.” Talia made a motion of her eyes around the room at this last comment. Then continued. “But if you make yourself more than just a man … if you devote yourself to an ideal … and if they can’t stop you … then you become something else entirely.” Bruce inquired with a shaken timbre to his voice, “Which is?” Talia answered simply, “Legend, Mr. Wayne.” The stranger continued, “Tomorrow you will be released. If you are bored of brawling with thieves and want to achieve something, there is a rare blue flower that grows on the eastern slopes. Pick one of these flowers. If you can carry it to the top of the mountain, you may find what you were looking for in the first place.”

Bruce countered with a touch of defiance in his voice as Talia turned to leave the room, “And what was I looking for?” Talia turned back and with a playful smile on her face replied, “Only you can know that.” And in an instant she had slinked out of the open door silently, and shut it behind her.

Bruce Wayne was tossed from the back of the Bhutanese prison van none too gently by glowering guards, seemingly quite unhappy at his miraculous escape from their nation’s justice system. The young billionaire, despite the aching in his body from numerous bruises the guards had seen fit to give him one last time, got to his feet quickly, and based on the sun’s position in the sky, set off for the Eastern slope. The trek was exhausting in the thin air of the Himalayan mountains. And it was a solid three hours of intense searching to find the rare blue flowers growing on the edge of a steep cliff. Bruce managed the precarious walk without tumbling from the uneven terrain, and continued up the mountain as the strange woman named Talia had bade him to do.

Four hours later, he was close to the peak. Ever shorter of breath. And with the frozen chill of a Himalayan winter’s night descending upon him. With concerted effort he pushed himself up the remainder of the way just as the sun passed below the horizon. And before his eyes in the dimming light he found himself in front of an austere looking monastery. With hesitant steps, he walked through the entranceway, masking his surprise at the doors which opened for him. The interior was lit with candles in silver holders. Intricate symbols and wood carvings covered the walls. At the center of the grand chamber into which the entrance hall emptied, was a small throne. And sat upon it was an older Asian man with a bushy grey beard and a stern countenance. Bruce asked with a tired and rasping voice, “Ra’s al Ghul?” Only to be met by silence. And then the sound of the door behind him being barred and shut. Bruce did not dare look back at who had done so.

The room quickly filled with warriors. Sporting wicked blades holstered at their sides and modern rifles upon their backs. And from behind him, a refined voice sounding as though its owner originated from near Ulster. A voice that asked, “What is it you seek?” Bruce replied hesitantly, “I seek … a means to fight injustice. To turn fear against those that prey on the fearful.”

The man walked from behind him. Revealing a fit middle aged figure in a grey suit. With a neatly kept beard and intense blue eyes. Bruce held out the azure flower to him and the man accepted it. Neatly tucking it in his lapel. He said in an even tone of voice, “To manipulate the fears in others, you must first master your own. Are you ready to begin?” Bruce suddenly felt the day’s weariness come upon him and he said with a panting voice, “I … I can barely stand.” The man kicked him to the floor viciously and said acerbically, “Death does not wait for you to be ready!” A kick to the ribs. “Death is not considerate or fair!” A pause. “And make no mistake, here you face death!” A kick. But this time Bruce was ready and caught the leg. Bruce knocked the blow aside and rose to his feet. Striking back with a punch that was calmly blocked. The man calmly said, “Tiger … Jujitsu,” as he blocked Bruce’s blows, grappled him, punched him in the ribs and sent him sprawling again. Bruce rose again. And struck. “Panther,” the man continued blocking every blow and correctly identifying almost casually the martial arts styles and stances Bruce was attempting to employ. He said with a touch of pitying humor in his voice after getting Bruce into another grapple, “You are skilled, but this is not a dance.” Followed swiftly by head butting him, and sending him sprawling upon the floor. Dazed. The man loomed over him and said with thoughtfulness in his tone, “And you are afraid … but not of me.” Bruce could feel the prick of the blue flower’s stem being stuck into his jacket. And seemingly into his flesh. The man said as if to a child, “Tell us Mr. Wayne … what do you fear?” Bruce quickly lost consciousness. Beaten. With blood pooling from his nose and the cut above his eye.

Bruce was lost in the reveries of his memories. Of falling down the well on the Wayne estates while playing. Of his pain and terror, trapped for hours. And all that time, the menacing shrieks and chattering of bats. Bats which would sometimes fly past him in an agitated state. For he was an intruder into their domain. Bruce remembered his father being lowered down to rescue him. He remembered weeks later when they went to see the Opera, Mefistofele. Remembered the batlike demonic creatures on stage. Remembered his fear and his father compassionately taking them out of the Opera early. Remembered their travel down a small side alley en route to the elevated Gotham Rail trains. Remembered the murderer. The entire encounter. And his father’s last words to him. The last comfort he had tried to give his son, “Bruce, it’s okay ... don’t be afraid.”

He was jolted into consciousness suddenly. Feeling the cool touch of a watery rag wiping away the blood on his face. As his eyes came into focus, he once again looked into the verdant eyes of the beauty named Talia. Her eyes held a look of concern for Bruce and she hissed across the room to an unseen figure, “What did you hope to prove father? That you could beat an exhausted, weather beaten man, near to death with ease?” The man who had beaten Bruce stepped forward into the light and ignored his daughter, saying to Bruce, “You may call me Ducard, Bruce. Do you still feel responsible for your parents’ death? Don’t look so surprised, I wasn’t divining your dreams with some mythic oriental spell. You talk in your sleep. And the hallucinogenic effects of the azure flower in your blood system made for revealing dreams” Bruce felt a knot appear in his throat before shoving down the bile and saying through gritted teeth, “My anger outweighs my guilt.” Ducard’s eyes softened ever so slightly and he held his hand out to aid Bruce in standing up as he said, “Come.”

As they walked through the monastery, Ducard said calmly, “You have learned to bury your guilt with anger. I will teach you to confront it. And to face the truth. You know how to fight six men. We can teach you how to engage six hundred. You know how to disappear, we can teach you to become truly invisible.” Bruce asked incredulously, “Invisible.” Only for Ducard to whistle and for a woman Bruce had not even thought to perceive, to drop from the shadows amidst the rafters. Talia removed the mask from her face with a small smirk.

“A ninja understands that invisibility is a matter of patience and agility.” Ducard’s words rang in Bruce’s ears as he trained. Bare chested atop a series of posts and dodging, as many warriors led by Talia jabbed at him with long sticks. Falling more than once, and recovering his footing by bracing his arms against the posts within reach.

Soon Ducard trained Bruce to use explosive powders in smoke bombs to escape detection. Saying simply, “Theatricality and deception are powerful agents. You must become more than just a man in the mind of your opponent.”

One day Bruce saw a man in a wooden cage being carried through the monastery. He asked Ducard who the man was, Ducard explained he was a farmer once who lusted after his neighbor’s land. And who had murdered him. As well as his entire family. Save for one girl who hid during the massacre, and who had appealed to the League for help. When Bruce asked what was to become of the pitiful specimen, Ducard simply said, “Justice. Crime cannot be tolerated. Criminals thrive on the indulgence of society’s understanding.”

The two trekked for miles across rocky outcroppings separated by massive chasms. Carved into the earth by ancient glaciers. One false step would send Bruce plummeting to his untimely death. But he made no such missteps. They made their way to a frozen lake. And the two squared off with broadswords. Ducard cautioned, “Always mind your surroundings.” Striking again and again and again at each other with artful blows. When the two separated after Bruce had been sent skidding across the ice on his knees, Ducard turned his back to him and said, “Your parents’ death was not your fault.” Bruce struck again and again, until his sword was caught in the bladed arm gauntlets of the older man. Who looked him in the eyes and continued, “It was your father’s.” Before disarming Bruce, who struck out at him with his fists in a fury. A fury Ducard easily exploited to throw Bruce across the ice prone on his back. Bruce attacked again and was again thrown upon the ice. As Ducard restrained his arm, he said in his simple way, “Anger does not change the fact that your father failed to act.” Bruce countered angrily, “The man had a gun!” Ducard had a counter of his own, “Would that have stopped you?” Bruce said simply, “I’ve had training!” Ducard replied while striking at Bruce, “Training is not will!” He paused and continued, “The will to act.” Bruce charged him, then rolled under the strike of Ducard’s blade. Reaching his own blade and raising it to stop the man’s strike. He swept the man’s legs from under him. Once Bruce had knocked Ducard off his footing with a sword at his throat, he said, “Yield.” Ducard said with a grim grin, “You have not beaten me. You have sacrificed sure footing for a killing stroke,” striking his blade against the ice where Bruce stood, plunging him into the frozen lake below.

Bruce spent that night covered in blankets and shivering before a fire on that frigid mountain top. Ducard advised, “Rub your chest, your arms will take care of themselves ... You are stronger than your father.” Bruce bitterly replied, “You didn’t know my father.” Ducard continued, “But I know the rage that drives you. An impossible anger strangling your grief until the memory of your loved ones is just a … poison in your veins. And one day you catch yourself wishing the person you loved had never existed … so you’d be spared your pain.” A far off sad look dominated the older warrior’s face. Bruce had a sinking inclination he was referring to the mother of Talia. Ducard continued, “I wasn’t always here in the mountains. Once I had a wife. My great love. She was taken from me. Like you I was forced to learn there are those without decency. Who must be fought without hesitation. Without pity. Your anger gives you great power but if you let it, it will destroy you … as it almost did me.” Bruce asked shakily, “What stopped it.” Ducard answered immediately, “Vengeance.” Bruce looked in the man’s eyes and replied, “That’s no help to me.” Ducard looked at him with piercing eyes and said almost curiously as though searching his soul, as if he knew Bruce had brought the gun to the Courtroom that day. And had failed to act. “Why Bruce … why did you not avenge your parents.”

Ducard asked Bruce, “When you lived among criminals, did you start to pity them?” Bruce answered, “The first time I stole so that I wouldn’t starve, yes I lost many assumptions about the simple nature of right and wrong.” He remembered those few fruits he had pocketed. How he hungrily devoured one, but hesitated and handed one over to a small child that sat near him. Nearly skin and bones. Bruce continued, “And when I travelled, I learned the fear before a crime. And the thrill of success … but I never became one of them.” Ducard held the blue flower that Bruce had retrieved in front of Bruce and replied, “You travelled the world to learn the criminal mind and conquer your fears … but the criminal is not complicated.” He began crushing the flower with a mortar and pestle. “What you really fear is inside yourself. You fear your own power. You fear your anger. The drive to do great and terrible things. Now you must journey inwards.” He ignited the dusty fragments of the flower in the bowl, creating an ethereal bluish smoke. Ducard handed him the bowl and said, “You are ready.” Bruce breathed in deeply and found himself in a world of nightmares.  
He distantly heard Ducard saying, “To overcome fear you must become fear. To bask in the fear of other men.” The glowing eyed apparition disappeared amongst the darkness at the edge of Bruce’s vision. “And men fear most what they cannot see.” A legion of black clad ninjas with glowing eyes rushed into the room. And Ducard faded in amongst them. Bruce donned the black mask which would make him indistinguishable from the Ninjas. Knowing this was part of the final Rite. To face fear. To find Ducard among the throngs of glowing eyed acolytes. The Ninjas parted into two lines facing each other. Swords drawn. And Ducard said from somewhere and everywhere, “You must become a terrible thought.” Bruce drew his sword and walked between the lines. Ducard struck shouting, “You must become an idea!” Suddenly the ninjas fell back in and Bruce was amidst them. Ducard had vanished. “Feel your terror cloud your senses. Feel its power to distort. To control. And know that this power can be yours.” Strikes of steel and then Ducard had vanished again among the rows of warriors that would periodically shift stance and direction.  
Suddenly the warriors split off into two lines again. Leaving a clear aisle in the middle of the room. With a box at the far end of it. In the distance was Ducard’s voice, “Embrace your worst fear.” Bruce was inexorably drawn forward towards the box. He felt his body almost unconsciously opening the lid. And in an instant bats swarmed his vision viciously as they flew from the box in a rage. Bruce stumbled back and fell. Shielding himself from the bats. He flinched in fear and only could steel himself upon hearing Ducard saying, “Focus. Concentrate. Master your senses.” Then Ducard struck with a series of quick blows. Bruce, already rattled, let one slip through his guard and cut his arm. He looked at the flowing blood as the lines reformed themselves again. He then quickly took his sword and began cutting the arms of the other Ninjas in the room. Right where he had been cut. He then fell back in line  
Bruce watched the prowling Ducard notice a cut on one of the Ninja’s arms. The older warrior took his mask off. Ducard pushed the man to his knees with his sword at the back of his neck, and with a chiding tone of disappointment said, “You cannot leave any sign.” In that instant Bruce removed his hood and placed his sword at the back of Ducard’s neck. Saying, “I haven’t.” Ducard turned his head slightly and Bruce could see a smile on his lips. Ra’s al Ghul, the older Asian man Bruce had witnessed upon his arrival at the monastery, began to clap slowly from the Balcony. Saying only, “Impressive.”

Bruce found himself bowing before Ra’s al Ghul as Ducard said next to him, “You are ready to lead these men,” indicating to the army of ninjas behind Bruce’s back. “You are ready to become a member of the League of Shadows … but first you must demonstrate your commitment to justice.” Ducard whistled and the murderous farmer Bruce had seen before was brought forward. Ducard held out a blade for Bruce to take. Bruce looked at it for long moments before saying shakily, “I-I can’t. I’m no executioner.” Ducard said gravely, “Your compassion is a weakness your enemies will not share.” Bruce closed his eyes and said as if to reassure himself, “That’s why it is so important. It … it separates us from them.” Ducard countered harshly, “You want to fight criminals. This man is a murderer!” Bruce shot back, “This man should be tried.” Ducard chuckled and replied, “By whom? Corrupt bureaucrats? This man’s brother is a local magistrate. Why do you think we were sought out to right this injustice in the first place? Criminals mock societies laws! You know this better than most.” Ra’s said finally, “You cannot lead these men unless you are willing to do what is necessary to defeat evil.” Bruce asked, “And where would I be leading these men?” Ra’s answered, “Gotham. As Gotham’s favorite son you will be ideally placed to strike at the heart of criminality?” Bruce paused and asked again, “How?” Ra’s continued, “Gotham’s time has come. Like Constantinople and Rome before it, Gotham has become a breeding ground for suffering and injustice. You and these men will be the bitter medicine the city needs. The avenging angels to sweep clean the cesspool. To wipe out the corrupt.” Bruce felt himself trembling. Thinking back to Falcone’s club. To police, attorneys, and politicians all so comfortable inside. He thought of the death of his parents. Of all those like him that the city produced every year. He slowly grabbed the sword from Ducard. And with shaky hands struck downwards at the weeping murderer. Severing his head from his body in the cleanest stroke Bruce could muster.

Everything passed as a blur. The drugs of the blue flower still addled Bruce’s senses. He felt Ducard clasp his arm and with a look of pride across his face say, “Welcome, brother.” Bruce felt feet carry him to his small sleeping quarters in the monastery. Unsure if they were even his own feet beneath him. He collapsed on the small futon that was allotted for his usage. And he saw that night in the alleyway again. Except … this time it was Bruce who was the gunman. He woke with a start as soon as the trigger was pulled.


End file.
